


Never Takes Too Long

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dean Sings, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Series, Protective Sam Winchester, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their home needs several repairs here and there. Sam goes through the list, realizing that Dean has not returned from work on time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Takes Too Long

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



> this is my day 7 for queer sam week. i'm late to work, but here it is! it was free-for-all so i went with this scene that i've had in my head for a while. the song quoted, in two lines, is "gravity" by sara b. beautiful song. <3
> 
> this is dedicated to mcdanno, who is wonderful. 
> 
> my netbook is dying and that is my only consistent way to write and upload fics. a little fundraiser has been set up here if you'd like to pitch in or spread the word about getting a replacement for me. i appreciate all of you. thank you so much. i can't tell y'all how much this means to me. www.gofundme.com/bmj3to
> 
> oh, chicago verse. i love spending time here. hope y'all enjoy!

July isn’t supposed to be filled with rain.

Chicago is gray and sopping and slick. When the humidity peaks at noon, the corner of 18th and Ashland gets thick enough that even smokers notice. Exhaust fumes from the buses and cabs and cars at rush hour don’t dissipate; instead, it all lingers, sticking to the rain that alternates its patterns. One moment it’s drizzling and an umbrella seems like a waste of energy. By the next moment, it’s pouring so hard that the rain is falling sideways, and an umbrella seems like the most profound invention.

This is how July has been. Sunny days that are hot enough to merit a day to one of the south side beaches have been scarce. It’s difficult enough to drag Dean outside to a place that doesn’t have air conditioning; Sam doesn’t stand a chance when ominous clouds hang over their block, threatening to unleash another erratic monsoon.

Sitting in the living room, Sam is pretending to read a book. He tagged along on Dean’s last venture out to the used bookstore and picked up a few classics he has always meant to get through. For all the schools they bounced around to as kids, Sam never cycled through one or stayed long enough to read _The Great Gatsby_. This copy is a little tattered, but the spine is intact and the pages are clean. It’s good enough. It just can’t hold his attention at the moment.

Their street changes in weather like this. The wear and tear on the houses is more apparent. Across the street, Sam can spot two houses that need their gutters fixed. A week ago, Sam hired a handyman to fix theirs and take a look at the possibility of building a ramp over the four front steps. After the gutters, an estimate was written down and handed over. But can anyone believe it? A tour around the house proved a few other things here and there that could stand repair, maintenance, or taking care of now, before the cold sets in. Sam trusts Mr. Albertson, an older man who was recommended to him by Mrs. Martinez, but the list he wrote started with the ramp and the paint, and ended six bullet points later.

Nick and Gatsby have to wait. Sam closes the book and tosses it onto the coffee table, scrubbing his face before getting up and wandering over to the kitchen. There should be a package of oatmeal cookies from the store still. He can make himself a cup of tea, eat a few cookies, and go through the list again. As Sam searches through the cupboards and cabinets and drawers, the weather shifts to match his mood. Darker clouds amass over their patch of sky and the rain isn’t polite anymore.

Cookie-less after a thorough search, Sam gives up, grumbling that he only bought that package of cookies two days ago and he only got to eat one.

He goes to sulk in the dining room. The list is there already, facing up, staring back at him.

Inside, the baseboards throughout the house need to be completely replaced. There’s one in the kitchen leading to the dining room, which Sam glances over at, that tore off last week when Dean’s cane knocked into it and got caught. There’s a leak in the roof that drips into the kitchen sink, which was convenient, but with all the current rain, whenever someone does the dishes they also get a shower. It doesn’t stop there. Most of the windows, if not all, need to be recaulked and sealed. Outside, the list gets more complicated. The garage door needs new springs and a new weather seal. Shingles on the roof need to be repaired or replaced. Despite consistent mowing—or paying the neighborhood kids to mow it—the lawn needs some help, especially near the door and the steps. And of course, the house needs a fresh coat of paint since it’s visibly chipping.

Even with the conservative estimate, Sam is still holding his head in between his hands. It’s going to cost somewhere between two and three thousand, and that’s even if Sam takes some time off work and pitches in to help. But that’s the whole point of hiring someone else to do this; he doesn’t want to pull up his sleeves and get to work. Someone else does, but that someone else is on restriction from knee surgery earlier this year.

None of these repairs are incredibly beyond Sam’s scope of knowledge. But he has another conference to go to in two weeks, and there are three cases on his plate right now, and he rarely ever gets home in time to watch reruns of _Cheers_ before Dean passes out on the sofa. He’s too tired to pretend to cook dinner these days, so he picks up the healthiest Thai or Mexican or Chinese food that he can get, and promises to himself and to Dean that things will slow down in August.

But three thousand dollars? Sam shakes his head.

There’s a little bit of savings stashed away in their bank account. And they’re not stupid. Sam could draw up money from anywhere; but why start that now? They’ve made it through without credit card fraud or bank account hacking for all this time. Most of the repairs can be done a few at a time. Sam gets a bonus in August that he was hoping to use for a small vacation somewhere warm and dry.

Head down on the table, Sam listens to the rain outside and whatever leaks in through the kitchen ceiling.

He remembers a summer where they stayed in a cottage outside of a small, touristy town in southern Michigan. Calling it a cottage was the nicest thing about that place. But who cared? They wouldn’t stay for more than a week, two if the job was more difficult, so what did it matter when the roof caved in, right above Dean’s bed? What did it matter, while John was out, that Sam stepped on a piece of rotten floorboard and fell halfway through it? Sam smiles to himself and closes his eyes, his hair fanning out over the dining room table. Last night, Dean made veggie lasagna.

No one cared back then because Dean would run around patching things up. He always had a roll of duct tape in his duffel bag. The caved-in ceiling and space where the floorboard used to be all got taped up, with Dean’s seal of approval; it was always good enough.

Duct tape isn’t going to work now, but Sam is tempted to suggest it. Maybe later, when he’s got a heat pad and strong cup of coffee ready.

The rain seems to lessen. Sam sits up and looks out the dining room window to verify the sound. Mr. Alvarez is in his backyard grilling. He likes to grill in bad weather; he says it makes the meat taste better. To each his own, Sam supposes. A minute goes by, and turns over into a new hour—seven p.m. arrives.

Seven. Sam taps his watch. Is that really? Shit.

Dean’s shift ended at five. If he picked up a couple more hours, he would have called. Hurried searches through Sam’s phone prove that he hasn’t missed any calls or texts, even in the fog his mind has been in all day. Panic is a familiar feeling when it hammers itself into his chest. Dean always calls. Always. Even if he’s stopping at the store after work, he calls and grumbles that there’s too many people in line.

True to its reputation, the rain picks up. In the two minutes that Sam paces the dining room, calling every number he knows, it rains hard enough for Mr. Alvarez to give up, shut off his grill, and retreat to his garage to finish. Not one answer. Voicemail every time. Even the shop’s phone rings for fifty seconds before Sam hangs up. Fuck. No, no, don’t let the panic win. It is entirely possible that Dean decided to grab drinks with the guys after work and he’s sitting in a bar—probably that one on May Street, tucked behind the pawn shop—and he’s right now realizing what time it is. Yeah. And then he’s telling the guys that he’s got to wrap shit up but it was fun and they should watch a game together another time.

At the front door, Sam is shoving his feet into whatever shoes are closest. In his head, Dean is taking his sweet ass time leaving the bar, tipping his favorite waitress a ten, cracking, “A ten for a ten.” She humors him, because he doesn’t mean anything serious about it—she sees his ring—and because he keeps the other guys in line, the ones who are serious about it. He may not get her through college with tips, but at least she can buy herself lunch while she’s studying. Dean has worked tip paying jobs; he knows what it’s like. He just doesn’t know how to fucking call Sam if he’s going to be home late.

What is happening in Sam’s head could be entirely different than what’s going on in reality. That’s often the way it is, why should this be any different?

Hand on the doorknob, lightning makes its appearance, thunder rumbling in right after. Sam opens the door, prepared to walk to the corner and flag down a cab. He can feel the shape of the words in his mouth, “May Street bar, please. Hurry.”

She rumbles past the stop sign three houses down and swerves before turning crooked into the driveway.

May Street bar was correct. Sam waits at the door. He isn’t getting soaked just to haul Dean’s drunk ass inside. He should have let the waitress call him a fucking cab.

The horn is honked once and the front door opens. One more honk, this time a little longer, and Sam sprints outside, across the lawn and the drive, panic resuming its work. It’s raining hard. But not hard enough to completely wash away the blood that drips from the driver’s seat.

“Dean…”

“Don’t,” Dean coughs, teetering on the edge of the seat, still trying to pull himself up and out of the Impala. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Sam snaps, pushing the door open as far as it will go. “Freaking the fuck out? What the fuck happened? Dean!”

It’s an ugly, jagged wound that has ripped clean through Dean’s jacket, shirt, and undershirt. The fabric around it hangs open like petals. “Exactly,” is huffed with a rattle in his breath. “…just… a graze. Looks worse… than it is.”

Dean could be missing an arm and he would insist that it was just a graze. But he’s right, in a way, this is not the time to ask questions. Questions, a lecture, and an argument can wait for later. Sam slides his arms under Dean’s shoulders. Together, they twist and push until Dean is out of the Impala, leaning against Sam, reminding Sam to lock the doors.

“Fuck the doors.”

“No. Lock ‘em.”

“Not now!”

“Yes _now_.”

“Later!”

“No… fucker…” Dean groans as he moves in the wrong angle. He buries his face in the crook of Sam’s shoulder. An order is snapped out for Sam to just fucking do it and quit fighting. The keys are exchanged and once the Impala is locked, Dean becomes more cooperative. Rain mixes with blood, sweat, and the tears Sam knows don’t actually exist; he’s not stupid enough to point them out, even if Dean deserves a series of lectures and house arrest.

Rain gets everywhere. It works its way into the collar of Sam’s shirt, and to the places he’s holding onto Dean, dragging him forward step by step. It collects in their hair, forcing the tufts of tawny gray to press down onto Dean’s forehead. It slides down freckles, past a smear of blood, turning red.

Hauling Dean inside is a challenge. Fucking steps. Fucking door. Fucking rain. Fucking everything in Sam’s way—the narrowness of the hallway, the length of steps it takes to get to the nearest bathroom, the creak of the floorboards that makes Dean nervous about his knee. Sam props him up on the countertop and turns to quickly start a bath. Over the sound of rushing water, he can hear Dean’s breathing, labored and wheezing. Steady. His hands have to steady now if they’re going to be of any use later.

Peeling Dean’s clothes off turns out to be painful and slow. The wound is the length of Sam’s hand, on Dean’s left side. For a fucking graze it has bled angrily, making his shirt look like a tie-dye experiment gone horribly wrong. Fuck the shirt. Sam tears it off, ripping through the fabric, worried when he doesn’t get a protest or a curse from his brother, who keeps and wears shirts until they’re dust.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, eyes closed tight, holding onto Sam’s shoulders as they move to lower Dean into the tub. “Sammy, easy.”

“Have I ever dropped you?” Sam snaps, his breath hitching. “What were you doing? What the fuck were you doing?” The water is warm—not hot enough to cause Dean to pass out, but heated up enough that it stings. It serves Dean right.

The bathroom fills up with steam and Dean’s groans. His fingers press bruises into Sam’s arms.

Hunters aren’t made of anything more than skin and muscle and bone and blood. If it bleeds, you can kill it. If it bleeds. It can die.

“Stop.” Dean pushes at Sam’s face with his palm. “I can hear you thinking, fucking quit it.”

How is he supposed to _stop_ when the tub is pink and the smell of blood, gunpowder, and sweat has replaced the simple smells of Lysol and shaving cream? Does he need to get something for the wound? What the fuck was it? Is it deeper than he realizes? What if it opens up at night, while they’re asleep, and no one notices? What if it festers? One last bellow of pain and Dean leans back into the tub, sighing as his body accepts the water around him. His eyes close but his mouth stays open in a half-sigh.

Water drips down onto Sam’s hand at the edge of the tub. Sam looks up. There’s a leak in the ceiling. Over it, is a now defeated strip of duct tape.

“Cheap ass tape,” is growled from the tub.

Sam could smack Dean right now.

Dean senses that. He concedes, quickly, “It was a stray vamp. In the alley next to May’s. He went after Jules.” So he was his favorite waitress’s knight in shining armor. “Daylight, Sam,” Dean reminds him, “he was fine in daylight. Fucker. Got at me with a knife.”

The fact is filed away for later. Sam relaxes. He doesn’t need to get anything special to treat the wound. It stands a chance at healing over clean; as clean as wounds like these can.

That stupid cottage. This stupid piece of duct tape hanging by a thread from the bathroom ceiling.

“Sam?”

No. Don’t fall for the hurt little boy tone. Don’t fall for the look. Don’t fall for the hiss of pain as Dean moves around in the tub, water splashing as he does.

They aren’t supposed to hunt alone.

He can hear Dean’s counterargument in his head—what was he supposed to do?

They promised—never alone.

“Baby.”

Oh fuck no.

Sam opens his mouth to shout out something harsh, something that will make Dean realize the situation he was placed in just because Dean needed to be a hero.

A cough interrupts him. Dean slips his right hand over Sam’s left. His breathing has settled, but his words are choppy and short. There’s not a lot of rhythm in what he says; it’s meant to be sung, really. But this will have to do. In the silence of Dean’s small, cramped, but always clean bathroom, sitting there in the tub with his left side open and tender, he breathes out, “Something always brings me back to you.”

The water has changed over completely, all of it pink. The rain outside hasn’t stopped.

“It never takes too long.”

It won’t always be like this.

One day, they’ll be separated by something Sam doesn’t allow himself to think about.

But he hopes that it’s like waking up from a good night of sleep.

His hand is given a squeeze.

The lecture can wait.

 

Sam breathes out.

Dean breathes in.

The piece of duct tape falls from the ceiling and into the tub.

 

 


End file.
